The Darkening of Advent

On Advent's first Sunday, the earth was still green with memories of summer, the green pines I brought indoors for the Advent wreath held hope, the fragrance of promise. Soon after I wrote my first Advent blog, green descended to grey, then into black with each earlier night. Advent Darkness rose up from the depths, engulfed me. Transition. The early Celts understood this so well, this dark time which they called the feminine time, when contemplation, stillness, waiting overtake the bright sun's call to activity. One evening  I read some words of Rilke: All creation holds its breath listening within me, because to hear you, I keep silent. I made the crossing over, fell in love again with the darkness that yearly draws us into  the womb where new life is being woven. Again Rilke: Let this darkness be the bell tower and you the bell. As you ring, what batters you becomes your strength. The Celtic Christians awaited the new birth of the sun at Solstice as they awaited the Christmas celebration of the dawn of light and love among us. And we know what they could only intuit: the universe was  birthed out of  darkness, and to this day remains 96% in a darkness that holds all in place. We are most deeply at home in darkness, held, and created anew by the love that moves the sun and all the stars.   Sink into this welcoming dark, and light the second Advent candle.